


Through the valley of the gun

by Mohini



Series: Ghosts [16]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Foster Family, Drug Use, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Vomiting, firearms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-16 02:15:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18682069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mohini/pseuds/Mohini
Summary: It seems like such an innocuous thing, just a little lump of jacketed lead. It has too much power to be so small.





	Through the valley of the gun

Squib Load: A squib load, also known as a squib round, or just a squib, is a firearm malfunction in which a fired projectile does not have enough force behind it to exit the barrel, and thus becomes stuck.

                                                                ( <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Squib_load> )

  


~~~  


 

_Sand, heat, smoke everywhere._

_Someone’s yelling, the guy next to him is firing off shots and then there’s an ominous pop. Pop is bad. Really, really bad in a rapidly firing weapon. The barrel of the thing blows in a wave of heat and flame._

_Fucking squib, someone’s saying, and all James can think of is why in hell they’re talking about non-magical people in the fucking desert where there’s no air and no safety and he’s going to die here before he gets a chance to apologize to Tasha for bailing on her._

His hand is gripping what is no longer flesh when he hears Steve’s voice over the roaring blood in his ears.

“You with me?”

He blinks, struggling to focus on the concerned face in front of him. His throat is dry and sticky at the same time, nausea bubbling in his gut as the realization that he’s had what amounts to a flashback during what should be a fun little firearms practice session with Steve takes hold.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know there was one stuck in the barrel,” Steve’s offering, and James drags in enough of a breath to answer him before he gets going on a more babbling attempt.

“Squib,” he rasps. “S’called a squib.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t know there was a squib, then,” Steve corrects. His hand is on James’ shoulder and what might usually be reassuring pressure is overwhelming. He shrugs away from the contact, cringing at the soft exhalation he knows is meant to be a sound of reassurance but feels like apocalyptic judgement.

“It’s the pop,” James murmurs. “You have to listen for it, bulges the barrel if you send one home after.”

Steve’s nodding, and it’s then that some helpful employee in black cargos and boots comes into the shooting bay.

“Need a hand with anything?” he asks. James clocks the openly carried Sig on the guy’s belt and remembers that Tasha likes this range because it’s well watched from camera rather than physical employee presence. Someone saw him strip the gun from Steve’s grip before he hit the back wall and accompanying bit of floor on a monitor. He’s suddenly really hoping that there isn’t an auto-recording for the footage. He doubts that, though. It would be sheer idiocy not to have record of what goes on back here. For any of a thousand reasons. Jumpy vets are probably the least of the potential threats.

“Squib round,” James tells him, trying to sound calm and failing spectacularly.

“Those are a right bitch,” the guy replies, “There are squib rods in the supply cabinet. I’ll bring y’all one.”

James nods, the guy’s drawl putting him on edge. He’s usually unnerved by that inflection, tied as it is in his experiences to people more likely to spit on him or cross to the other side of the street to avoid being too close to men holding hands than they are to offer assistance without mentioning that he’s sweating, well, bullets, after what ought to be a mildly annoying equipment malfunction.

The promised metal rod and accompanying mallet are placed quietly on the ledge of the shooting bay window, next to the weapon that’s still pointing downrange, a magazine inside and the inadequately propelled round lurking somewhere in the barrel.

Training takes him through the motions, dropping the magazine, double checking that the chamber is fully cleared, before stripping the slide off and easing out the barrel. A few taps on the squib rod and the bullet pings onto the wooden surface of the ledge. It seems such an innocuous thing there, just a lump of jacketed lead.

“Where’d you serve, brother?” the guy asks, and it’s all James can do not to jump at the voice he’d forgotten to expect nearby.

He hates that question. Forces himself to breath in and out slowly before answering. He looks into the guy’s earnest face and notices the unit emblem inked onto a muscled forearm. Ah, that explains it.

“Here and there,” James tells him, not interested in playing the reminiscing game.

“Ah, feel you on that,” comes the reply. The guy takes the hint and skips out on any further questions.

Steve is standing by, watching the exchange and clearly ready to step in if needed. James finds it endearing, that mother hen attitude that he would consider irritating beyond comprehension in any other human. Maybe not Tasha, but beyond those two souls, definitely not okay.

“Thanks for the tools,” James tells the guy as he hands them back. He sets to work examining the barrel, pulling a cleaning kit from his range bag and wiping it down, the smooth slide in and out with the cleaning rod assuring him that the interior didn’t suffer any damage. Reassembly takes seconds, and he stows it carefully in the lined carrying case before zipping the lot into the range bag.

Steve takes the hint and puts the rest of the gear away. James wants to think he can finish out their planned time for the afternoon, but he knows it’s going to do more harm than good to pretend that all is well. He can still hear his heart hammering in his ears, and his knees haven’t quite returned to completely solid matter.

It’s habit, but unnerving just the same, when they leave the range walking just far enough apart to look like they aren’t a couple. Steve’s comfortable holding hands anywhere they are, but James can’t convince himself it’s safe in a place where the good old boys are carrying loaded weapons. Folding himself into the car is enough to melt whatever self-control pulled him out of the worst of the panicky aftereffects to begin with. His breath is too shallow, too fast, and he can’t do anything about it. Steve’s hand wraps around his forearm for a fraction of a second before the car is moving.

“Tash? Hey, you home?” Steve is speaking into his phone, pressed between shoulder and ear as he pilots the car with one hand and keeps the other barely touching James’ clenched fist.

The roaring pulse in his ears is too loud to catch much more of the conversation, but Tasha’s there when they pull into the driveway, yanking the range bag from the backseat and hauling it into the house so that Steve can come around and pull him to his feet. He shuffles inside, his feet barely under his control until he collapses onto the couch. There’s a feathery touch on his lower lip and he opens his mouth enough for Tasha to give him whatever it is she has. Valium, probably. Maybe a Xanax. Hopefully not anything stronger, but he’s not inclined to complain either way. Next up is the comforting, familiar scent of her shampoo as she sits beside him and rests her head on his shoulder, taking the arm that isn’t his in her hands. She’s the only person on the planet who treats the prosthetic as though it’s not the least bit unusual.

“Talk to me?” she asks.

“Flashback,” he mutters.

“No shit. About what, dumbass?”

“There was a squib. Blew up like a firework. Part of it nailed me, knocked me out cold for a minute.”

“Mmhmm,” she encourages. Tasha doesn’t let him get away with leaving out the relevant parts of stories. She’s not looking for tales of glory. She’s looking for the shit he doesn’t always trust Steve to hear without making the pity noises.

“Killed a kid. Took half his face off,” James tells her in a voice that’s more breath than vocalization.

There. It’s out there. The memory of tacky blood that wasn’t his is visceral. Not that it’s an isolated one. He couldn’t put a number to the times he’s been on the front end of finding out how long it takes for blood to coagulate on skin - or clothes, or anything else, really - in desert heat. The sticky feeling in the back of his throat makes another appearance, and he swallows hard against it.

“Steve? Gonna need a bucket,” Tasha calls out, and James wants to tell her he’s just fine, thank you very much, but he isn’t and he’s equal parts grateful and embarrassed that she knows it.

There’s a plastic trash bin shoved hastily into his lap and Tasha’s hand is on the back of his neck, guiding him toward it as the sticky, scratchy need to cough morphs rapidly into a body clenching shudder that brings up a rush of acid and partially digested lunch. Tasha’s patting him now, a hand thudding slowly between his shoulder blades as he hacks and gags on thick mucus and spits desperately. The rushing, pounding pulse in his ears is back, but it hardly matters because all he can think of is that he doesn’t want to pass out and choke.

“Breathing’s a good idea,” Tasha’s telling him, and he gasps in an attempt to obey. He gags instead, bile warm on his chin because he doesn’t have enough functional control over his body to lean over the bin.

There’s something swiping the slimy mess away, and Steve’s rough fingers should feel comforting but they don’t. They’re too much like the medic who shook him and demanded he tell him where he was. He tries to explain, but he just retches dryly instead. He’s empty, but his body doesn’t care.

“Leave him, Steve. Jesus. You’re not helping here,” Tasha’s growling and then it’s small, spindly fingers trailing over his face again, no comparisons to anywhere but here to worry about with her. She’s definitely, absolutely not a memory from war. Or at least not that war.

“Jamie,” she’s whispering, and the diminutive is sweet when it’s normally irritating. He’s tired, and scared, and the only thing he really wants is sleep. There’s another brush of her fingers against his lips, and another papery tablet pressed on the tip of his tongue. He swallows, beyond even guessing what she’s giving him. Anything is better than this. One of her tiny bottles is up next, the bite of vodka sharp against his acid roughened throat. Even that is grounding, though. There wasn’t vodka in the desert. Or at least not the slightly vanilla flavored variety Tasha prefers when she’s not drinking for pain.

There are more tablets, more sips of vodka, and eventually the comfortable, heavy sensation of his brain closing up shop for the night. The last fuzzy thought that tumbles through his awareness is that he hopes Tasha knows how much the hangover is going to suck when the chemical cuddle blanket wears off. The thought turns out to have been verbalized.

“Duh. I’ve got shit for that too, dumbass. Sleep. We’ll deal.”

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
